Last Battle
by Gargoyle13
Summary: Gawain's last battle.


**_Usual disclaimers apply._**

**_Italics indicate thoughts._**

* * *

Blue eyes turned upward, looking around to locate the few true Knights that were left. He was old now, _too damn old for this sort of thing_, he snorted derisively, looking at the blood mixed with blonde and gray in his braids. They were all too old for this sort of nonsense anymore. There was nothing left to prove. They were the Sarmatian Knights, the most feared and respected group to serve in this godforsaken Roman outpost. Their sons and sons of friends formed the Knights now. The boys called themselves Sarmatian, but they were not – not truly. Many of them were a mix of Sarmatian and Briton blood and many more still were pure Briton blood. Not that it mattered. He had long ago learned that Briton blood was just as strong and thick and stubborn as Sarmatian. They were not a people that would be walked over, by Rome or anyone else. His tenure as a Knight had taught him they had strength. His wife, she had educated him about their passion and spirit.

Life had changed drastically since he had come to this island all those years past. Friends had been made and lost. Some had returned to Sarmatia but the majority was buried in the little cemetery. Arthur had united most of the tribes of Britain after the battle against the Saxons. He was a fair and just king, though he hated that title fiercely. He still believed in the equality of all men. A good man. Perhaps still a bit Roman in some respects, such as his insistence on ceremonies for every damn thing, but he was a good commander and his Knights would follow him anywhere. Hence, the current predicament.

Gawain's left hand was pressed under his ribs, trying to stem the flow of blood leaking out, making his fingers sticky. This was not a good wound. Not that any wound was good, but this was a grievous wound, he could tell that much from the growing stickiness between his fingers coupled with the difficulty he was having balancing on his knees. Blood loss was making him light-headed and beginning to spin the world around him.

His boys were too involved with combat to notice his predicament. That was as it should be. They were young. They had families to raise, sons to teach and watch grow; into Knights, just as their fathers and grandfather. Their concentration lay on the fresh onslaught at the forest edge, just as he had taught. This brought what he thought was a faint smile, though in this state, he could not be certain any of his muscles were under his command anymore.

Perhaps it was indeed time; time to lay his axe and head down. He had never surrendered, but somehow it seemed the right thing now. He was tired and the blood that he knew should be warm was growing cold.

Thoughts of all those who had fallen before him filled his mind and he saw them, standing, waiting, calling his name. Dag. Tristran. Lancelot. Kay. Gaheris. Gareth. Agravaine.

It was time. He was certain now. His life played before him, like a dream. Leaving Sarmatia and traveling to the outpost. Meeting the Knights that would become his family. Arthur instated as commander, slowly gaining the Knight's trust and respect. Deaths. Burials. Meeting Áine and marrying her. The births of his children, each one celebrated joyously and intoxicatingly. He replayed his wife's final admonishment as he had saddled up to leave. "You will come back, in one piece." It had not been so much a request as a command. He had rewarded her with his half-laugh, half-smile. "Of course," his usual reply to nearly every request she made of him. The memories faded as quickly as they came, replaced by coolness that was not altogether unwelcome.

His vision blurred at the edges, and he was unsure if the familiar Sarmatian curses left his lips or faded as soon as they rose. _Not now, damnit…not until I know… _His eyes cleared for a moment and he was able to make out the one figure on the battlefield he had long ago become accustomed to seeking. The Knight strained against the tide, still winning the fight. _Fighting like the Knight he had struggled to become._ The well of pride was almost enough to conquer the pain. Almost.

The workhorse pitched forward, strong leg muscles finally unable to bear the burden any longer. Catching himself with his right hand – his left had since adhered to his side. The blood, seemingly much like the man, no longer possessed either strength or desire to continue. He looked down at the mud that had been hard dirt earlier. It was an odd colour for mud – reddish-black and oddly familiar. As the strength of his shoulder and arm failed, he realized that it was familiar because it was not mud, but blood…his blood. He fleetingly heard voices screaming his name, the heavy footfall of boots coming toward him…and then nothing as his eyes closed and he braced for the impact of hard ground.

The impact never came. Or, rather, it came but it was soft…cushioned…and did not smell of blood and dirt and death. He opened one eye tentatively and realized he was not alone. He was eye-to-eye with the Knight he had spotted moments earlier.

"Galahad." It was more of a thought, a breath, than anything voiced.

"Gawain." The reply was just as ethereal.

They laughed; boyish, charming and innocent. They had made it. They were home. They were free.


End file.
